The Other Half of my Soul addm-1

by Gareth D. Williams

  Damn! Corwin thought. How did he find out about that?

  The two people in this whole battle who actually seemed to know just what their commanding officer – Alfred Bester, Esq. – was up to – Captain Ari Ben Zayn and his constant companion Mr. Harriman Gray (P10) – were out of radio contact. Now that might be due to normal background radiation interference or whatever. But it could be that they’d come too close to one Shadow too many.

  And that would leave a lot of unanswered questions.

  “Have you got through to the Ozymandias yet?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said one of the technicians. Ah, what was his name? Guerra? Something like that. “Not a sound.”

  “What about the Babylon?”

  Now that was strange, if anything about this whole battle could not be considered strange. The Babylon had been Captain Sheridan’s ship. After his… somewhat forced defection from Proxima, Bester had returned it to the Resistance Government. The next time he saw it, Corwin had been expecting to be staring down its forward cannons. After all, the Resistance Government did consider him and the Captain to be Minbari-loving traitors.

  And here they were, the Babylon actually fighting against the Shadows, who were supposed to be allies of the Resistance Government.

  Corwin had long ago given up any hopes of understanding the universe. He’d be happy just understanding his own corner of it.

  Alisa’s eyes fluttered and she looked up. “Commander,” she muttered. Her voice was that of a ninety-year-old, not the enthusiastic young woman he and the Captain had met earlier. “Com…”

  “They’ve gone for the moment,” he said. “Rest.”

  She tried to nod, but clearly didn’t have the energy even for that.

  “Commander!” spoke up Guerra – if that was indeed his name. “The Minbari seem to be pulling back.”

  “Think they’re retreating?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Corwin tapped his forefinger against his jaw slowly. Were the Minbari any match for the Shadows? Were they actually retreating?

  Or was this all a ruse?

  “Follow up on the Minbari,” he said. “But keep our distance, and if any of those bloody big Shadow ships show up, leg it quick.”

  “I… can…” Alisa whispered.

  “No,” Corwin snapped. “You can’t.”

  He looked up.

  And out there… somewhere… was the Captain. Corwin wondered if he’d managed to escape yet. It was only a matter of time…

  * * * * * * *

  His cell was dark, but then he had been expecting that. Captain Sheridan had been walking in darkness for years.

  Where had it all begun? When had his first footstep on to the path of darkness been made? In his cell with Ivanova? On the bridge of the Babylon where he had shot and killed his wife? At his furious, maddened assault on the Minbari over Mars?

  Or had this all been preordained? Had he been destined to walk in darkness from the moment of his birth?

  Sheridan didn’t believe in Fate, but that did not mean that Fate did not believe in him.

  Delenn. Everything came back to Delenn. What was it about her? She was Minbari, a Satai, orchestrator of the war against his people. How many would have been saved if she had said just a few words differently? How many deaths could be placed at her door?

  And yet… and yet… he felt… comfortable with her. She had once told him that their souls were joined together, perennially continuing relationships from the past. He wasn’t sure if he believed that, either, but he sensed a comfort and an ease around Delenn that he never felt around anyone else, not even Corwin. Not even Anna.

  Sometimes he even managed to forget that she was Minbari.

  And now this. One part of his mind – the part that had launched the assault over Mars – was fuming with anger and betrayal. She had betrayed him. It was because of her that he was here. He had trusted her, helped her, risked his career, his life, all for her, and she had betrayed him. That part of his mind was brimming with anger. That was the part of his mind that had burned its way to the front during the Battle of Mars. Military tactics, strategies, supply lines, allies… all the things he had been taught, all the details that had served him well in the past… they had all gone straight out of the window, and he had become, for that battle, a machine. A pure machine who existed only to kill.

  But there were other parts of his mind. One of them remembered the look of betrayal and lost innocence in her eyes when he had hit her on Vega 7. It remembered the way she had come to help him on Babylon 4. It remembered the image of her, battered, bruised, nearly broken, on his return to Proxima after his trip to the Narn homeworld. It remembered her speech about sharing souls.

  The door opened and there she was, as if drawn by his thoughts. She stood there for a moment, illuminated in the doorway, and then she stepped inside. Sheridan caught an image of two figures at the door, and then they faded and everything was dark again.

  “Delenn?” he said cautiously. She did not reply in words, but he could hear the sound of her breathing, and the light whispers of noise made by her movements. It was her.

  “Delenn.” Firmer this time. Why was she not saying anything? Was she too ashamed by what she had done? Had she come here just to gloat?

  “John,” she whispered. “John… I’m…”

  He could feel her next to him, hesitating to touch him. He could hear her breath, coming harsh and ragged. Almost as if she were weeping.

  “John…”

  The parts of his mind warred with themselves, and then one retreated. He reached out and held her. She dropped her head on his shoulder and began to cry. John did not think he had ever seen her cry before. She had been close on a number of occasions, and he had heard that she had broken down during Mr. Welles’ brutal interrogation of her, but he had not truly believed it until now.

  Her sobs were those of someone who has just lost everything she has ever had.

  John was content to hold her. Accusations of treachery and moments of rage would have to wait.

  He had time. Time enough to hold her now.

  * * * * * * *

  There are some beings in the galaxy whose deeds are so renowned that their names are recognised almost everywhere, many with appellations marking the nature of those deeds. Captain Sheridan himself was one, marked with the name Starkiller. The Minbari were not the only ones to fear him. His involvement in the last Narn / Centauri War had made a substantial difference, and had been one of the major reasons why the arrogant Narns hadn’t fallen before the revitalised power of a Centauri renaissance. There were many in the League of Non-Aligned Worlds who knew full well Sheridan’s power and strength, and who also called him Starkiller.

  There were others aside from Sheridan to gain that sort of renown. Sinoval’s name was fast becoming recognised, ever since his actions during the beginning of the Earth / Minbari War and his almost meteoric rise from Shai Alyt, to Satai, to Entil’zha and now to Holy One. G’Kar’s name was likewise famed. Greatest Narn hero of the Narn / Centauri War, turned prophet and greatest hope against the Darkness, his teachings had affected many of his people and were, slowly but surely, turning the Narns’ destiny around.

  Then there was another, one who had earned her notoriety, not through deeds of courage or wisdom or skill, but through deeds of murder and of evil. Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar, whose bloody swathe across the Non-Aligned Worlds had left billions dead, countless mutilated, wounded or dying, and her with the name Deathwalker. She was assumed to be dead, killed by the once powerful Earth Alliance when it had liberated the Non-Aligned Worlds, or killed when the Dilgar’s sun went supernova, or died of old age in some forgotten hideaway.

  Assumptions are dangerous.

  A long-ago deal with various elements within the Minbari Wind Swords clan had resulted in her being given sanctuary with them, in exchange for the results of her brilliance and research into biogenetics, weaponry and so forth. Some such weapons had
been employed to terrifying effect in the early stages of the war against the Earthers.

  But time passed, and many of those who made the deal with Deathwalker died, to war, to age, to Starkiller. All of those who knew about her died, while she lived on, perfecting her immortality serum, until it came that only one knew of her existence.

  Sinoval had inherited her legacy when he had inherited the leadership of the Wind Swords clan after his predecessor had died on the Dralaphi. He had not been happy. He saw Deathwalker as a foul thing, a malignant blight in the very heart of Minbar, but he was trapped by his obligations, and he was forced to allow her to maintain her research, and commit her atrocities. He was never sure of the details, but he would not have been surprised to learn that she had been involved in the mysterious and sudden outbreak of the disease Drafa which had wiped out the Markab.

  Sinoval had thought that he was rid of Deathwalker forever. After his assumption of the title of Holy One, when he finally had the power to resist her, he had cast her out from Minbar. His sense of obligation forbade him from killing her, much as he would have liked to, but he had been confident that his position kept him safe from her.

  He had been wrong.

  Deathwalker was still very much alive, and she had her allies, individuals who disagreed profoundly with what Sinoval was attempting to do with Minbar, individuals who were willing to damn themselves for the sake of power.

  Deathwalker had been expecting this to happen for a long while, and she was not unprepared.

  Far from it.

  * * * * * * *

  Lyta Alexander would never forget the sight of Marcus’ slumped body as long as she lived.

  Neither would Susan Ivanova.

  Both of their lives had become intrinsically aligned with that of the tall, dark-haired last survivor of his colony. Lyta as companion, friend, would-be lover. Susan as enemy, lover and ultimately, murderer.

  Susan was still, staring down at the body on the floor at her feet. She had been affected somehow by the deaths of her Shadow guardians. She was motionless. Her hand opened and her steel pike – still stained with Marcus’ blood – dropped to the floor. It was as if she were paralysed.

  Lyta was not.

  Opening her mind, listening to the voice of the Vorlon inside her, the same voice that had given her the strength to override the sleepers and lash out mentally at Ivanova, Lyta did so again. She was not thinking. She was not caring. She was just doing.

  Susan screamed as Lyta tore into her mind, shredding thoughts and memories and feeling, ripping apart everything that made Susan Ivanova what she was. After a while, Susan stopped screaming. Lyta didn’t stop her assault, until she realised that she was on her knees, the effort driving her almost to collapse. Ivanova had stopped screaming, she was simply staring up at the ceiling, shaking uncontrollably, uttering tiny whimpers.

  Lyta drew in one deep, gasping breath, and crawled forward. She could smell Marcus’ blood, she could smell the ichor of the dead Shadows. She could smell death.

  Perhaps he’s still alive, she dared herself to think, now that she had started to think again. Perhaps I can touch him… touch his mind one last time… Perhaps…

  But no, there was no hope. Marcus was dead. His chest had been torn open and his heart and lungs reduced to pulp by the force of Ivanova’s blow. Lyta touched his forehead gently. His eyes were open. Even in death, they looked haunted and scarred. Not even at the end had he found the happiness he had so yearned for.

  She gently closed his eyes, not wanting to look at them any longer. She said his name softly, and then again. She could not… it was… it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! Why did he have to die? Why…?

  The Vorlon didn’t scream a warning at her this time.

  Ivanova grabbed Lyta’s leg and wrenched her backwards. Lyta fell back and rolled over, but Ivanova was on top of her, hands closed around her throat. “What… did you do… to… me?” Ivanova cried out. “What… did you…?”

  Lyta couldn’t believe this. She had… she had destroyed Ivanova’s mind. She had to have! This was… this was impossible. What had the Shadows done to her so that she could survive that?

  Or maybe she hadn’t totally survived. Lyta was staring directly up into Ivanova’s eyes, and she could see a raging fury there, a dark, intense, savage madness. Ivanova tightened her grip and Lyta gasped.

  Help me! she cried out inside her mind. She was not strong enough to override the sleepers. Not without his help. Help me!

  But her only help was one word. Wrong.

  Ivanova picked Lyta up by her throat and then smashed her head against the floor. Lyta’s whole body shook. Help me!

  Wrong. Pride. Anger. Abuse of your power. Wrong.

  Help… me…

  Lyta gasped again. This was impossible… Ivanova’s savagery… her sheer strength… What had the Shadows done to her?

  Lyta’s head was thrust against the floor again. She felt a warmth running through her hair. She was bleeding.

  Help…

  …me…

  * * * * * * *

  Tryfan looked up and saw the wall of Darkness moving towards his White Star – the Valen. The rest of the Minbari fleet was pulling back, slowly giving ground to the Enemy. He had been expecting a difficult fight – unlike his fellow Minbari he underestimated no one – and things were in accord with his gloomiest predictions. The Enemy had taken some losses. The Minbari had just taken more.

  The White Star had no flyers, but the capital ships did, and they were out there now, forming a screen between the fleet and the advancing Shadows. Tryfan could see them dying before his eyes.

  “In Valen’s Name,” he whispered. He was tired of seeing his fellows fall and die. He was tired of seeing brave Minbari sacrifice themselves. He did not try to analyse Sinoval’s reasoning in ordering the gradual retreat, but he did know he had to do something.

  Victory is never impossible.

  At his order, the Valen soared forwards, into the heart of Darkness.

  * * * * * * *

  President Clark knew a great deal about darkness. He had seen it on Earth, before the war, he had seen it in the way he saw humanity’s future. A long time ago, when he was just a Senator, he had presented a speech before the Senate about his vision of humanity’s future. Ground up, enslaved, subjected before the will of alien masters, lost beneath a tide of aliens and nonhumans and foreign customs.

  The War had proved him right, and its aftermath had also. Humanity was reduced to little better than slaves, meekly accepting a life of servitude on Narn-held worlds simply because it was preferable to being blasted into atoms by the Minbari.

  For ten years he had been slowly rising in power, watching and listening to the completion of his terrible vision. It would not happen. Morgan Clark had dedicated his life to preventing it happening.

  And the beginning was here. The Battle of the Second Line it was already being called. The day when humanity took back the galaxy.

  He knew that this was for the best, for the good of humanity, for humanity’s future. (And if an alien voice spoke in his mind, then that did not matter. This was all for the good of humanity.)

  “First reports are coming in, Mr. President,” said one of the technicians. Clark could not remember his name. He was sitting alone in the Resistance Government’s Hall. Clark did not like being alone. It meant the voice he heard was louder. Where were the others? Takashima was on board the Babylon, and Welles would doubtless be keeping Security in order in the Main Dome, in case alien saboteurs tried to land, but where the hell was Hague? He had been becoming seriously unstable lately. Clark might have to have him removed.

  And where was Ivanova?

  “Our probes indicate that the Minbari are beating a slow retreat, Mr. President. At least five of their larger ships and seven of their new medium class ships have been destroyed, as well as a substantial number of their flyers and shuttles. Our allies do seem to be taking some casualties, but they still easily outnumber
the Minbari. There are also a number of anomalous ships which seem to be present…”

  Clark started. What? “Describe these ships,” he ordered.

  “Two appear to be Earthforce heavy destroyers, Mr. President,” the aide began. “Anoth…”

  “Alien trickery,” Clark snapped. “The Babylon is the only heavy destroyer remaining after the war. The Minbari must be employing tricks to confuse our allies. The other ships?”

  “One Narn heavy cruiser and one Centauri warship…”

  “The Narns? What are they…? Oh, I see. They’ve betrayed us as well. You can’t trust aliens. None of them. Or the Centauri. Oh well. Our allies will take them down soon enough. Is that it?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Good.” Clark smiled, but then his smile faded. “Do you know the whereabouts of Ambassador Ivanova?” He might have expected her to be here. She had spoken of some personal business, but still…

  “No, Mr. President.”

  “Find her.” Clark had tried contacting her quarters, only to receive no answer. “Ask her to come here.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The technician bowed and left, rather hurriedly. There had been suggestions for the Resistance Government and other important officials to be moved from the Main Dome to somewhere safer, but Clark had refused to be moved. He knew humanity’s allies would not fail them.

  He knew because the Keeper told him so, every time he closed his eyes…

  * * * * * * *

  P ride. Anger. Abuse. Not ready. Perhaps I was wrong. Show me otherwise.

  Lyta could not breathe. Her vision was swimming. All of it except for Ivanova’s eyes. These – dark and furious and brimming with madness – they were focussed directly on the back of her mind.

  Help… me…

  Lyta hands were reaching out, clawing desperately for something to hold, anything. Her fingers brushed against something cold and sticky.

  They jerked back in revulsion when she realised what it was she had touched. Ivanova’s pike, still stained with Marcus’ blood.